


Speechless: the Choices We Make

by Leszre



Series: /træn’sendɘns/ [5]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Book-Verse Time-line, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Not Beta Read, Spy!_Elio, Vimini lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/pseuds/Leszre
Summary: COMPLETED.NOTE: this is arepost, as a part of re-instating effort…[TRANSLATION] unless I’m new to you, you already read this. :).[ Outline ]From the CMBYN book, fifteen years later, this AU begins in the week when Elio visited Oliver at one of his lectures with beard and all. Oliver comes home after dropping off his wife and two kids at the airport and finds an intruder. And Oliver learns that Elio was recruited as a secret operative as soon as he started his college, a year after Oliver’s departure.
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Series: /træn’sendɘns/ [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992796
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As with my other fic, this might not be your thing as I tend to spew out unusual interpretations. Even if you don’t like mine, please keep being a valuable fanfam member of CMBYN in AO3. Each and every one of you are important in this fanfamdom world and its continued existence. Grazie!  
> .  
> Rating: **T** , for mention of blood, injury, and weapons.

**15 plus One**

**Oliver's Residence | New England, U.S.**

I unlock the door with a practiced ease and push it open. One long drawn out sigh of ‘hm' escapes me without intending to. Something stirred deep, I must admit, after seeing Elio last week. I’m supposed to be at the kids’ grandparents’ cabin. Thankfully, the missus agreed to let me have some time on my own without asking why I need one. So I dropped them off at the airport and I fought the urge to swing by at the local bar, for some hard liquor to dawdle on this internal (somewhat-queasy) tension, and decided to come straight home instead.

When I turn on the light, I sense something odd in the entrance. Nothing is disturbed but the air inside the house seems different. I run my palm over my face to shrug it off. But as soon as I pass the living room, I catch a perfect circle of red dot on the floor. My head tilts, slightly. I carefully kneel down to see what it is. When I run my finger on it, it lifts off of the floor.

Blood.

As my gaze slowly rises up, another drop of perfect circle of blood comes into view: a half of foot ahead. I quietly gasp. My eyes dart frantically. Someone is inside!

I try my best to not make a sound as I straighten myself up. And as quietly as possible, I follow the trail of blood drops. There aren't too many but it is definitely leading to the guest bath in the back.

Once I reach the end of the hallway, I see a smeared three lines of thick blood in bright red, on the door frame. I quickly think on my feet and the fire extinguisher at the corner catches my eyes. So I lift it up as soundlessly as I can and reach for the door knob. I determinately heave my chest and clench my jaw. Okay, Oliver! Then, I turn open the door fast and hurtle in.

I startle myself at my own reflection in the bathroom basin mirror.

There is no one.

Yet, I find more traces of blood in the bathroom floor and the medicine cabinet. That’s when I hear,

“Oh, hey, Oliver.”

A familiar nonchalant voice.

When I turn around, Elio is sitting inside the bathtub, his back leaned against the corner wall, behind the half open shower curtain, clutching his abdomen.

.

**A Week Ago | One of the Columbia University Lecture Halls**

There were a couple of students who wanted to ask me a question. Nothing unusual, though during today’s lecture, I specifically requested for them to direct their curiosity inward so they’d be able to prepare their presentation. To my relief, a rather fidgety student was informing me of their upcoming absence, not to ask questions. I refreshed them of the information I went over at the beginning of the semester and reminded them to go through the on-line request form, not forgetting to thank them for giving me a heads-up. I traced my fingers on the attendance sheet and made a little note on the tiny box of the said date. The student eventually left.

“You probably don’t remember me,” a voice rang.

My head turned to his direction, I squinted somewhat, trying to place him. Although his voice registered very familiar, I couldn’t quite pinpoint who or a place where I heard it before. I quickly went through my memory of students, plainly looking at his face. My head wasn’t giving me any and he just stood there without further words. A look that is so familiar. Suddenly, I felt stricken at the possibility that we had met in a place I didn’t care to remember. When I was about to put on a tentative, ironic look, —an uncomfortable, puckered smiles — to tell him something like, ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaking me for somebody else.’ Then, it hit me.

“Good god––! Elio!”

It has been fifteen years since that fateful summer.

Fifteen.

.

He said that he counted them last night on his way here, when I inanely repeated the question, asking how many years it has been. We both knew I was just being flustered and reiterated that question like a broken record. I just couldn’t believe he was actually here, with me.

All grown up, beard and all. He looked like he got a bit taller than I remembered. Maybe because of how I was looking at him, Elio blinked a couple of times and backtracked what he just said.

“Actually, that’s not true. I’ve always known.”

His voice. A tad deeper but it was still a music to my ears. My heart swelled and I could feel my mood suddenly being lifted. Like someone brought a personal sunshine, just for me. I invited him to walk with me to my office. Elio gave me a nod.

The way he walked was the same; the mannerism, the way he nodded as I gave him a brief tour around the office, even the way he quirked the edge of his lips, how his eyebrows moved—Everything. I didn’t know I remembered him that closely in that detail. Then again, how could I not?

We fell into the rhythm of fooling around in a matter of a few minutes; over the framed postcard I took from his walls, how internet search engines don’t show much about the person. I wanted to know a little more about him: the _Real_ Elio Perlman. He just chuckled. I felt my cheek heat up at that simple gesture of his.

When he invited me for a drink, I paused, rather too abruptly.

“I said, for a drink. Not fuck.”

The brazen mouth of his. And I couldn’t help but to smile back. We shared a couple of drinks at his hotel bar. A semblance of two longtime friends catching up continued. Elio declined my invitation for a dinner with my family. I felt heavily defeated but I teased him instead, calling him a goose. But we both knew where we stood quite clearly: an accord and an agreement reached without much words. Though the root of the hesitation and the trepidation of not coming to a dinner might be shades different, we still understood each other. As we did, all those years ago.

.

**Present Day | Oliver’s Residence | Oliver POV**

“What~? I speak four languages.”

Nothing has changed. Elio is not counting Greek and Latin. He is still being too modest for his own good, as he not only speaks them but reads and writes, too.

“So uhm…, am I your assignment?” I ask him cautiously.

“Oh, please––,” Elio looks like he just heard something mildly funny but too polite to frankly cringe at how bad the joke was, “you know it takes more than your outspoken political view.”

So, he has been keeping up with what I have been doing, also. I brought out more towels and a first-aid kit, hopping that it’d help him with his current state. But Elio simply keeps the pressure on his left abdomen. Feeling a bit bewildered and lost on what to do, I ask him whether he belongs to any government.

“Don’t tell me, you are one of those guys.”

I frown a little at him with a look.

“Guys who only watch documentaries and history channels?” Elio offers with a mild look. I probably have a ‘huh?’ expression since he huffs out a couple of laughs between the small flinches, “never mind. You don’t watch spy movies or read fiction novels, either. I get it.”

“Is it like if you tell me you’d have to kill me thing, then?”

“Oh, professor, there isn’t even a need.”

Elio apologizes for the mess he has made, asking me to stop making him laugh. I somehow feel a dash more relaxed now and my head immediately goes to some place I tried so hard not to.

“You don’t look a day older,” my mouth just blurts out.

Unlike the week ago, Elio is clean-shaven and the length of his hair is back to just as I remember him, fifteen years ago.

“Oh,” he just runs his knuckle over his jaw and huffs quietly.

He tells me that it was his cover. Since his job is done, there is no point in keeping it, adding it’s easier for him to exit, undetected.

“Your eyes,” I say to him realizing they are greener than his usual hazel.

“Ah–,” Elio gives me a tight smile, “contacts.”

Elio’s eyes flicker and I feel a metal object against the back of my head.

“(Easy there), Rose,” Elio says in Italian, calmly.

“(It’s unlike you), Celan,” a female voice rings from behind, in French, “(you don’t pick a place with an occupant).”

“He wasn’t supposed to be home.”

My eyes widen. He even knew my house was supposed to be empty this weekend? A gun pointed at my brain, yet the things I think about is how great it is to know that he has been keeping _very close_ eye on me. But I don’t dare to move.

“(This place isn’t even near the LZ),” retorts Rose, now in German, “(what are you up to?)”

“(You can relax),” say Elio in French.

“(How do I know for sure?)”

I gather that two speak in multiple languages but this female person is more at ease with French.

Shit, my French is rustier than the Italian.

“Rose!! (Don’t make me muzzle you),” Elio warns with a distinct look with his eyes. Something flashes quite dangerously.

“(Fine),” replies Rose, in French, begrudgingly, finally taking the gun away from the back of my head. And I hear uncocking click, “(crews are on the way, ETA 15).”

Elio gives a light nod of acknowledgement as I hear Rose holstering her gun.

Elio extends his other arm and goes, “Oliver, Rose. Rose, Oliver.”

“Pleasure,” said Rose curtly, not sounding pleased at all. Then, she steps out to the hallway and I hear her quietly shuffle around. She must be at the liquor cabinet in the living room. I hear her curse about how dismal the selection is.

“Is she uh…,” I ask Elio, trailing off half way.

“A long story.”

Rose’s mumble continues on. This time in English. I can’t quite make out what she is saying but I have the urge to point out that this is my home so I go, “excuse me, this is–,” a bit loudly.

She quickly appears into the bathroom and puts her stiff index finger vertically over her lips and points her other hand to her ear, with her eyes wide. I freeze. She must have some sort of a superninja power of walking soundlessly. Or she was on her way here already.

“Yes, the package is secure,” she continues on, after giving me a half of eye roll and Elio just chuckles under his breath.

“Celan in recoverable condition. Plan execution confirmed. No other casualties.”

She says some signing-off code and sighs. Then, Rose grumbles in French getting into the tub and Elio chuckles more, quipping something back.

“So, you are the Oliver,” kneeling down in front of him, as Elio tries to push himself upright for better assessment.

“The Oliver?” I look at her, then I turn my head to look at Elio.

Elio just shrugs.

Rose mutters something under her breath, pushing up Elio’s blood soaked shirt. Elio grunts once hard, with a heavy flinch. She swears. Then, she rips the Velcro-ed pocket open on her waist and pulls out a kit. Rose swears some more, wiping the wound with a gauze. With a shift of motion, her hands reveal semi-translucent bandage.

“Hey, easy.”

“(Didn’t I ask you to wear MFA? But no~~, the almighty Celan never gets into a knife fight, he says– )”

“It was the maid.”

“Of course, she also wasn’t supposed to be there, right? Urgh! (French curse word),” as she sprays something over Elio’s deep gash.

She uncaps a needle with her teeth and presses it near Elio’s wound until there is a distinct click. Elio hisses with a fleeting grimace. Rose peels open the bandage and carefully lay it over his wound, making sure the opened flash is neatly lined up.

“See? good as new,” quips Elio quietly.

“(good as new, my fucking ass.)”

“I love you, too,” says Elio like to an adolescent teenager, as he gathers the blood soaked towel and remnants of Rose’s first-aid kit.

Rose curses some more. She helps him up and out of the tub, then gives me a straight yet curt look of, ‘do you mind?’ I blink a couple of time and I go, ‘oh!,’– she was asking me to help him out of the bathroom. So I place myself next to him with my knees bent a little. Rose says something under her breath as she hands him over to me. I do make out Elio’s comeback in French as he says something equivalent of ‘hush.’ Rose steps ahead and I see her leading us to the living room, extremely quietly as if she is gliding over. She speedily pulls out a folded silver shock blanket, out from one of her pockets, and cover the lounger. Rose then straightens herself up with a look as if to say ‘here.’ Yes, ma’am, I think to myself, leading Elio to the seat. Once, he is securely seated on the sofa, I hear her say.

“Err––, I’m gonna–,” she tosses her thumb over her shoulder.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Elio dips his head, trying to straighten himself a little.

When I look at him, Elio smiles and offers, “securing the parameter in the back.”

“In the back?”

Elio lifts his softly curled fingers in the mid-air. A light tap on his ear then points upwards. With a few moments of silence, I hear a soft low buzz, coming from just outside the front of the house.

“Ahh–,” as I sit across from him.

Elio smiles in return.

“It’s really good to see you,” I say to him.

“Twice in one week. Sure.”

Elio tells me that the clean-up crew will take care of the mess he made and that it will as if he was never here.

“So, you don’t need to worry about explaining it to the Mrs.”

I just laugh under my breath.

“Celan, huh?”

Elio simply hums, with an inscrutable ‘Celan, celery, who cares?’ whatever look.

“Is hers…?” I ask.

Elio’s short curls curtain forward over his sweat beaded forehead. He points two fingers in similar manner at Rose’s direction first then taps them on his neck. I turn my head and spot a monochrome rose tattoo on her neck, half-covered under her tactical gears, even from this distance. She appears that she finally decided to settle on one bottle of my hard liquor assortment. With a scowl showing she is severely unhappy about the dreary selection. Automatic hum rumbles at the bottom of my throat as a light bulb goes on in my head.

I hear two tiny beeps.

When I turn my back to living room, at the direction of the noise, Elio is in the midst of pushing himself up. But he sways. I run to him immediately and catch him before he loses all his balance. One hand on his chest, the other on his shoulder.

We are dangerously close. Elio holds my gaze. Even through that contacts, I see his beautiful hazel. He really didn’t change a bit. The outer green rings of his stunning hazel irises. His long dark chocolate lashes. The constellation of tiny freckles on his chiseled cheeks I mapped all day and all night since that midnight. High ridge of the bridge and nicely proportioned wings of his nose. Just deep enough philtrum right in the middle. His soft blush pink heart shaped lips. The angular lines of his jaw and chin, now shaded with blueish grey from the shave. All I want right now is to claim his lips. I must have leaned in.

“No, no, no,” Elio says low, putting his palm on my chest, with just enough solidity, “no, professor.”

I swallow hard. A minute pause hangs precariously between us yet Elio doesn’t back away.

“Seeing blood will do that to you, Oliver.”

“Do what?” I ask him quietly.

“Change of perspective,” says Elio, rather bitterly.

I want to tell him it isn’t that. I want to tell him that it never went away. Elio straightens himself upright and takes a step back. At that very moment, all of a sudden, I feel a presence of another human being, right next to me.

“(Five minutes, is there anything to eat?)”

I jump a little at Rose’s voice and Rose is offering Elio the bottle to swig. Elio waves his hand at the mid-torso level. She nods very briefly turning around and, oddly, her upper body bumps against mine. Though she offers a very swift, “(pardon)!” and I hear Elio clearing his throat, briefly. Something feels off. But the whole past fifteen minutes or so has been weird, as my eyes observe Elio gesturing his open palm towards the kitchen with an expression ‘why don’t you go find out for yourself?’ with a warm smile. Out of nowhere, I just brush my palm over the blunt tag I got from Rose. In my brain, I know it doesn’t hurt and I quickly reason to myself that it is just a psychological soothing response.

Once we are left alone again, Elio chuckles with saying, “trust me, I for one who can definitely use a nice stiff one right now but…,” and I see him studying my face. And all I think at this very moment is how gorgeous his face is to me.

“Besides, you've made your bed, you've been lying on it,” Elio gives a little meaningful pause, “and so have I.”

I don’t know what came over me, I take a step closer with the inexplicable desire to hold his face between my palms.

“Oliver,” I breathe my name.

Elio’s eyes drop to the side and he shuts his eyes briefly.

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver–.”

I know he is injured. I know this is not the time. I know it’s just my illogical reaction to seeing blood. But like an ocean wave, I am mercilessly overcome with only one thought. Our noses are just about to brush. But I catch Elio pulling his chin back a little. So I stop. Not knowing what to do with my hands, hovering, hesitating, and feeling out of place.

“Elio, I…,” I’m trying to explain this to him, and obviously, spectacularly failing at it.

Elio’s eyes are back on mine. My breath hitches. I then blink rapidly a couple of times in a row. The air about him, in that split second, is different. Is it hurt? Is it anger?

I take in a breath but Elio says, before I speak my mind, “I don’t think I can stop at a kiss.”

Then I see his eyes glint with mixture of myriads of emotions, I cannot seem to decipher. Even all these years later, I’m fucking this up. What the hell are you doing? I chide myself. And I see Elio’s lips compress into a thin line. A slight flicker in his eyes. Why does it feel dangerous? Then, I feel a hand slide under my chin and a sharp poke on the other side of my neck.

What the––!

Before I could react, my head swirls and I hear,

“I know you understand,” Elio’s soft smile and voice fade like a melting goo as my body slumps down to the floor.

.

When I wake up, I am sitting in the very chair Elio sat. Immediately, I’m overawed with a horrible mixture of abysmal headache and nasty lurch in my stomach. My mouth is severely parched. Feeling the heavy zing, I do my best to get my head out of the fog.

After what seems like a solid half an hour, I get up off the lounger and start surveying the house. Everything is back to normal as I left it before I dropped off my family at the airport. The clock on the wall says that I’m missing four hours and I hear my mobile’s interval beeps. I take hold of the device and there are four missed calls and seven unread texts. The liquor cabinet is back to what it was. The bottle that Rose supposedly took out is still in there, as unopened.

I open the bathroom in the hallway. Nothing is disturbed. Even the towels were back to how my wife left them in the linen closet. No trace of blood on the bathtub, no hand blood smear on the wall or the knob.

Did I fall asleep as soon as I came home? But I don’t remember falling asleep. Then, my logical thinking tells myself that I must have dreamt the whole thing. I groan, rubbing my palm over my face. Yet, it was too real to be a dream.

I sigh out through my nose. I don’t know how long I stood there. When I finally gather myself, I grab a bottle of water and head to my study. Of course, no reason to see any disturbance, is there? I think to myself.

I switch on the light and I tsk. Everything is where and how I left it. I sigh out loud. As a defeat and as a relief. Weird concoction to hold at the same time. As I am about to sit down in front of my desk, my eyes catch two distinct objects. An old edge-yellowed edition of Leopardi and a tattered Arabic dictionary, opened to a certain page. When I step in closer to take a look, the silicone bookmark with a little hand is pointing a word: _al-barquq._

_._

**15** **plus Three**

**At the End of Autumn | New England, U.S.**

I lift my throbbing left foot on the edge of a bench, evening my breath. I wince, undoing the lace. A tiny pebble probably. I think to myself. Maybe I should have stopped when I first felt it about twenty minutes ago. But I didn’t want to stop. My heart was already zoned in and passed the incline, and was beating at a nice and steady 65 beats per minute. Plus, I didn’t want to break my stride and the rhythm. I huff to myself. Blisters are nutthin’. Through my right peripheral vision, I see a woman sitting down. And for some reason, I have a gull to look up with an expression. There is literally other open benches she could sit down but why this one?

She is wearing something that shows she isn’t here for an early morning run. But her clothing is inconspicuous enough to blend in this weather, at this setting. One thing that stands out, however, is her heavily tinted shades. This early in the morning? I think to myself. She turns her head nonchalantly towards me, without words.

As if on cue, the gust of cold autumn wind blows through both of us. When that stray stream of air passes her, it lifts the woman’s shoulder length hair over to her back, exposing her neck. I recognise the monochrome tattoo.

“Rose?”

Her lips slowly make a wide smile. Then, her right hand comes up and she takes off her dark brown sunglasses. Without a blink, she just looks directly into my eyes.

“It can’t…, it can’t possibly be…”

"Hi, Oliver," she greets and says my name with the familiarity I vividly remember, "It's been a while.”

How is this possible? I want to ask but I simply stand there as if I lost the capacity to speak. Utterly shocked.

“It’s good to see you are doing well,” she offers with a smile.

Vimini is alive and all grown up. Her young adolescent features finely matured into a gorgeous grown-up. How can this be? After what seems like forever of me just blinking, I gather myself.

“I thought you were…”

“I remain so, for the rest of the world.”

“But how?”

“Israel.”

I did hear about Israel’s revolutionary medical treatments. Although from the limited knowledge I had about little Vimini back then, I thought her leukemia returned after a few years of remission. But wait, I remember Elio sending a letter about Vimini’s passing. Even the tear drops that blotted his words and faint remnants of his hand swipes against the sheet as ink stains.

“No, Elio didn’t know until a few years after he was recruited. Walk with me.”

Recruited? Wait. Was she recruited first? Are they working for the same organization? What the hell is going on?

Vimini pushes herself up effortlessly putting her hands into her coat pockets. Without saying any more words, she leads on. I heave my chest and join her dutifully, and we stride along the less traveled side of the paths. She casually begins about the Israel. She explains how she was cured of leukemia. Apparently, her mother was a former intelligence officer and her father a high ranking embassy member. Targeted Stem Cell treatment, she continues.

“Of course, there was a complication which left a distinct scar,” Vimini tilts her neck just a little and adds the tattoo is to cover it.

“Are you Mossad?” a question I ask, how stupid can you be? I chide myself with a grimace.

“Former.”

Just like the Vimini I remember, she still is a straight arrow. I don’t know why I’m surprised at her answer. Maybe I am one of those people Elio said a couple of months ago. After she fills me in, —that even her parents don't have much access to her any more—I ask an odd question out of nowhere.

“Are you and Rose…?”

She nods.

I know an expression when I see one, of a person who has been in a great mutual relationship. And in Love. Although it was a brief fleeting smile, hers showed exactly the essence of such person.

“Rose says, that’s how I will know she is a part of me. My twin. As she is mine.”

From my short encounter with Rose, I wouldn’t have guessed she’d have that sort of romantic bone in her body. Suddenly, I’m filled with an urgent desire to know more about her 15 years. Granted that my mind has been bored through like a beehive with burning unanswered questions; about this mysterious entity called all grown-up Elio. Vimini’s sudden reappearance only befuddled me further. That is exactly when I feel my sweat has cooled and I shiver as privately as possible.

“I love nothing more than to catch up over a warm cup of tea or a shot of hard coffee, Oliver. But I need your help.”

“My help?” I ask her, knowing that she knows there's no coffee shop open this early. Although Vimini didn't explicitly say out loud, it seems as though she came out here as a very special occasion.

Vimini nods once with a brief hum.

“It seems that Elio is in sort of a pickle.”

“What kind of pickle?” as soon as I say it, I grit my teeth for how sarcastic it may come across.

Yet her expression does not change and she hands me a pamphlet. It’s an interdisciplinary conference that I am scheduled to attend in Belgium. Actually, two separate ones: one in Antwerp, the other in Bruges. This has been scheduled since late June. So it's a public knowledge for those who are interested as I’ve been on the speaker/lecturer list in their domain since then. Even the Columbia's faculty bio page, also, has been reflecting as such. But I still cannot let go of the fact that Elio and Vimini know more about me than I'd ever about them in my life time. It definitely is a bizarre feeling and a positively peculiar notion.

“Rose needs her way in and I would be most grateful if she could accompany you as your attaché.”

“Attaché?”

“Of sort, Yes! You are a writer and I’m sure you can come up with something. It was nice meeting you.”

She gives me a good firm hug. Maybe I am imagining it or my brain is playing a trick on me but Vimini smells just as I remember. Soft note of warm honey with smooth sweet scent of fresh cream. Even after she lets go of me, her warmth and her presence linger. Vimini casually puts her shades back on and gives me a light wave with her fingers, before she disappears around the corner.

.

On my way back home with a brown bag of freshly baked bagels and muffins, my pocket gives a chirp. I look down at my pocket in my mid-stride. There is no one around. I know I left my phone at home. Sure enough, when I reach my hand in it catches an object. I flip open the device and it has a new text message.

\ ‘I’ll be in touch.’ \

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –chapter sub-heading(s) denotes the time apart, the years and month(s) of divergence in ElliOllie's life.  
> –MFA: metal flax armor  
> ; Knife resistant vest and ballistics resistant vest are different. Basically, knife resistant one is for close quarter combats that involve edge/blunt weapons which the construct allows some tear in the tactical gear structure. Ballistics resistant one, on the other hand, is for projectile objects, especially spinning at the high rpm. Kevlar is a trademarked material used for both but the fundamental construct is vastly different as the displacement and force of weapon (their entry) are distinctly dissimilar.   
> .  
> –a sedation doesn’t happen in a blink of an eye, like a Hollywood-itized scene. So I added a bit more plausible event to make it close to a real scenario. Rose’s shoulder bump is the first shot. Then, on the neck is the second one.  
> .  
> As always, \Thank You/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**15 plus Four**

_You are a writer and I’m sure you can come up with something._

**Early December | Columbia University | Oliver POV**

I keep staring at the device that fits my palm. A tech that looks like at least a decade ahead of time. A sleek design yet, light and rugged. I lost count how many times I flipped it open and close. I did wonder whether it’d need charging or a battery change. So far, it’s still going.

\ ‘I’ll be in touch.’ \

There has been no communication. The semester came to a close and I already finished posting final grades. A slightly ahead of time than my usual. All I have left is to review the final assignments of my graduate classes.

“Professor?”

“Yes, Metti,” I answer to my TA. Metti, short for Methelda, who is the newest recruit of this semester. I’ve noticed them from one of the core lit. classes.

“Your three o’clock is here.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” I am scheduled to meet _Karen_ the journalist. I put away the pile and click the save button before I close out the program for the universities grading page, “please.”

Metti smiles, still a bit too shy for their own good, before turning around.

“And Metti?”

“Yes, professor?”

“If you don’t have anything else, you can call it a day.”

And they fidgets with two quick blinks.

“Go~, it’s Friday. I’ll see you bright and early next Monday.”

“Thank you, professor.”

I give them a gentle head nod.

A few seconds later, my three o’clock walks in. I take a couple of steps forward to greet her. She has a brilliant long red hair with voluminous curls. A black thick framed glasses. Double breasted figure hugging suit jacket over a mid-calf length pinstriped A-line skirt. Except for blazing red lipstick, she is not wearing much make-up. I see Metti stacking up their binders and books into their arms, behind Karen, and gives me a final head bow before they heads out. Karen pauses until Metti closes the outer door to my office shut completely. Once a soft thud and a metal clack resonate, she reaches out her hand and says,

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, professor.”

As soon as I heard her voice, I go, “Rose?”

“Zuppe said that she’ll be in touch.”

\ “I did, didn’t I?” \

I jump a little at the voice, coming from my computer’s speakers. Funny, I don’t even wonder how Vimini is capable of hacking into this system. Columbia really needs to up their network security. Oh, wait, I can’t share that.

“Hi, Zuppe, how’s the weather?” Rose says sitting down close to my desk, in one of the chair at the table.

\ “Doves are ready for their afternoon nap.” \

I’m certain they are speaking in their own code.

“Don’t you uh… need to secure the perimeter?” I ask her in a low tone.

Rose scuffs fondly with a lopsided smile, gesturing her index finger around in circle. Then, in swift progression, she points it to her ear, covers her eye with aligned fingers, and crosses her hands in X front of her lips. Ah~~. It appears that she did them even before she came in.

\ “How long did Heraclitus take?” \

That must be my designation. Or do they say, a call sign?

“(French curse word), I just know I need to get you a box of Belgian truffles.”

\ “that quick, huh?” \

“Yep.”

\ “Hello, Professor.” \

“Zuppe?”

I hear Vimini chuckle, \ “it’s a long story.” \

“Is it the soup or the neutral one?” I ask her.

“Oh, he _Is_ good,” Rose chimes in.

\ “Well, it started as the former but it ended up as both. Neither my choice nor have any involvement from my end, whatsoever.” \

.

**14 Years or so ago | Crema, Italy | 3rd person POV | Spy_Elio’s Origin Story**

Elio was sitting in his father’s study with a large mug of freshly made espresso. Dear old professor Samuel Perlman was gifted with mountains of redacted files, and piles of eight tracks and cassettes. The shipment came yesterday afternoon and professor was only given three days to review these five boxes. Or he would have to travel all the way to the agency’s headquarters, to view them. There were four _additional_ house guests who’d be staying for the duration. And coming Saturday, the Perlmans’ would be hosting a first female post-graduate intern for the summer. Retrospectively, Elio figured out later that it was about the similar time as the director of MI5 wanted their real true history written by a renowned historian who has been vetted by their own agency. Just like Professor Christopher Andrew at Cambridge, Samuel, too, agreed to become a temporary agent to serve as the agency appointed historian for Italy’s own intelligence agency.

“Tesoro,” said Samuel, getting Elio’s attention. And Elio pressed the pause button on the player and looked up at him with raised eyebrows.

“Would you––?” Samuel eyed his desk.

Elio just nodded. And Samuel thanked his son and stepped out to walk his legs that were falling asleep. He pressed the play button the device as he flipped through the transcription. And he heard it again. It was not distinctly recognizable as it almost sounded like a background noise. Elio blinked. Then, he quickly paused the device, rewound the tape a little and played that section again. He wasn’t mistaken. Elio heard it again.

APO

He frantically flipped through his notes and his messy handwriting that marked several separate page numbers, designating different files and documents. So he looked at the device and recorded the section time on the pad.

Who knew what he was doing then would lead him to cryptography?

.

**9 Years or so ago | Undisclosed Location, Italy | 3rd person POV**

It was not until a couple of years after his college graduation. By then, Elio was trained in several different specialties such as cryptography, cyber security, data analysis, and eventually, counterintelligence. Granted it didn’t have much computing power as the current era, Italian domestic intelligence agency indeed had a solid—Olympic athlete performance level—section, surpassing that of Germany.

For three months now, Elio had been receiving an unusual chatter from Middle East. Nothing to raise the alert level. And surely not for any other colleagues in his team could notice. Although it wasn’t part of their purview to compare notes amongst themselves, either, while on the clock.

It came in as a distinct note. Of course, Elio recognised the exact pitch. What appeared as a static noise for everyone else came out to be a series of number. Elio searched the data base. Nothing came up as a match. No coordinates, no asset location, no covert operation designation. So, just out of the blue, he widened the search and let the super computer do its thing before leaving his desk to take a little break. When he returned back to his station with his fifth cup of the day, he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was for a barcode of a library book, designated specifically to the city library in B.

Elio had a hunch that he knew exactly what the book was. But he decided to make sure.

[Montage of Elio closing out the window, getting out of chair, and walking towards the door.]

So, without letting anyone know of his findings, he took a personal day to visit and find out for himself. Things didn't change much. The sceneries were the same. The last time he visited here was a few weeks after Vimini's untimely passing. Elio sucked in a breath before pushing the entrance door to the library. The book search terminals were upgraded but remained in their respectable locations as he remembered. Why would someone be leading whomever to this? Elio pondered typing in the number. The hour glass icon appeared on the screen and it turned and turned. And just as he suspected, it was for what Elio imagined it was for. He clenched at the back of his teeth. Though as intriguing as it was, Elio couldn't figure out who else knew about this very book. Is this a trap? Am I being targeted? Because there _was_ only one other person in the world who knew the significance of this book, for Elio.

Elio took a carefully look around, making sure his motion wasn't drawing any attention. And he filled his lungs and treaded towards the Children's Book section.

.

**Present Day, December 24 | JFK International Airport, NY | Oliver POV**

[A Montage of Oliver getting out of a taxi, going through security, and boarding the plane]

For most people, it is ridiculous to attend almost a week-long conference, spanning from a day after Christmas till New Year's eve. But it is what it is. As a Jew (especially having been an odd jew out the majority of my life), not celebrating Christmas hasn’t been a big deal. Then my thought goes to my reverie of a story Elio told me.

/ “Jews of discretion, my mother says. We wear our Judaism as people do almost everywhere in the world: under the shirt, not hidden, but tucked away.” /

Then he continued with a rather awkward smile (for me, indescribably adorable) that me comfortable being a jew, that the fact that I, at some point in my life, decided to let go of the metaphysical discomfort of being an odd jew out or the world surprised him. I still remember the very look of Elio’s face.

The male brain, by definition, is supposed to have less direct access to amygdala, the deep memory center, compared to the female brain. But for some reason, everything and anything that concern with Elio are as vivid, if not more intense, as the day I experienced them.

.

I was instructed to meet Karen at the conference separately as she will be following me around throughout the day. By the plan, Karen is only scheduled for a single event, not all six days because of the event policy. Official press pass vs. private day-in-a-life pass thing. Vimini said that she had to draw the line on how much she could involve a civilian into an op. If Rose is registered through the conference as a press, the ripple on me will be minimum, she added. I did ask if that was the case why she asked me in the first place. Rose tartly muttered her usual multi-lingual curse words and said, “for your protection, (French curse word).”

I guess within the intelligence community, Elio’s unexpected contact, with me back a few months ago, made me a person of interest in lieu of Elio. I don’t bother to ask but to trust Vimini’s plan. Vimini informed me that I just need to carry on according to the conference schedule, as long as I introduce Karen around during meet-n-greet. She didn’t specify to whom but just said the enigmatic, “you’ll know.”

.

**December 26 | Bruges, Belgium | Oliver POV**

Things are surprisingly routine. Just like any other conferences I have ever attended. When I arrive at the venue, I notice a barricade on the either side of the street. I just take this somewhat of an odd scene in, as I push through the giant revolving door.

The front desk agent greets me with a brightest smile I’ve ever seen. He verifies my information and takes out an expertly made envelope. Deep red textured box-ask A5 size. On the back, it has my name, title, speaker, Columbia University, engraved in silver ink. When I reluctantly begin to enquire about the scene I saw walking in (disguised as a simple passing by curiosity), he professionally offers that there is a protest scheduled this week.

“Must be a big one,” I comment.

“The city is trying to make sure it is as peaceful as any of these occasions should,” he answers in French imbued British accent.

I nod.

“Do you like exploring the surroundings, doctor?”

I make a non-committal expression with a smile.

“If it is not an intrusion, may I recommend that you kindly stay within the hotel between the hours of 11am and 3pm tomorrow?”

“Of course, I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

He dips his head elegantly with a warm smile.

.

I decide not to attend the pre-conference get together as I have arrived later than majority of the attendance. I let Missus know that I have arrived safely. When I ask how things went with the boys, she just glazes over the subject. I’ve been with her long enough to know that is a sign things didn’t go as planned.

“Would you like me to talk to them?”

“ _I doubt they would answer their phones, Oliver_.”

I feel bad that I am away.

“ _Listen, honey, I’ve gotta let you go_ ,” she says and I hear her subduing her irritation.

“Right, okay. I’m sor–”

Before I finish, I hear the call end.

.

After two hours in the fitness room, I manage to get my bearing without drowning myself in coffee. Once I’m at the hall, Karen approaches me with a wide smile offering a large take-away coffee. Petting her press pass, which is held at the end of a logo-laced lanyard, she carries on her cover, marvelously well. Rose would do well as an actor, I think to myself. A couple of scholars and academics, whom I’m already acquainted with, come and join us. We share a small talk of what we are expecting to see in this conference.

Once we are away from the crowd and in safe distance from eavesdropping ranage, I hear Rose curse under her breath.

“How are you?” I ask her under my breath.

“Ha–, ha–, fuck you very much.”

She sits next to me with the recording device deftly clutched in her manicured hand until my turn to go on the podium. Karen, then, stands on the left corner of the stage the entire hour of my lecture. I don’t know what she expected to happen. And my imagination takes off at some point and thinking that the recording device clutched in her hand is some sort of a hidden weapon. Yet seeing her this cautious puts me on edge. Though a part of me cannot help but to feel like a royalty. Because she is in a sense a personal security detail. Calm down, professor, you are not in a movie.

The luncheon time rolls in without any blip. Karen goes for the pre-packaged cold sandwich and fruit smoothie. Professor Dyson waves me to join him with his colleagues. I glance at Karen’s direction and she dips her head lightly as an approval/agreement.

“Is this you or is it part of the cover?” I ask her in jest.

“Glad that you approve,” she answers me quietly.

She effervescently introduces herself as a journalist and Pr. Dyson enamors at the fact that I have a member of a press following me around.

“I couldn’t believe myself, either. I’m sure I was the lowest hanging fruit in their long list.”

Karen seems to have done her homework and starts to change the subject about Pr. Dyson’s expertise. Being fawned over by a blazing red haired journalist who is hitting the key points of his life’s work, he quickly forgets about his inquisitiveness and begins his scholarly boasting to her. And I quickly wonder whether I am profiled in that depth with the kinds of Rose and her team. I am in half way through my lunch and I sense some change in the banquet hall’s atmosphere.

Naturally, all of us automatically reacts to it. When I turn my head, there he is.

_Elio––_

His hair is in medium length wearing expertly tailored suit that accentuates his physique. On his gently bent arm, a woman who appears to be in her late 50s clings to him. She is wearing something very expensive. Flowy medium weight silk dress. Around her neck, there is layers and layers of necklaces in different length and materials. One of Pr. Dyson’s colleague mentions something about her dress being Balenciaga. As Karen and I are sitting right in their direction, she swiftly restarts her conversation by,

“Professor, if you don’t mind, would you share with me some words?” and takes out her Dictaphone.

So, except for me and Karen, everyone else’s attention is back to Pr. Dyson’s academia and his current research.

From a distance, Elio carries on the conversation with his trademark smile, nodding at the appropriate moments and intervals. He nonchalantly raises his arm and fixes his suit jacket buttons. Something flickers sharply in Karen’s eyes. Pr. Dyson’s colleague excuses herself saying that she’d like to get some fruits.

“Oh, let us go,” says Professor, adding that he is going to get some sweet pastries.

He courteously asks whether I’d like him to bring some over for me. I decline with a smile. He gives me a fatherly tap on my shoulder. Once we are alone,

"(French curse word, hang me by the neck)," says Karen under her breath, tilting her water glass.

Before I have a chance to ask her why, Karen gets up and leads ahead. I follow her behind and I quickly notice that she is leading me to a corner. Must be a blind spot. I think to myself.

"Change of plans. Remember what Zuppe said about the whole plan, right?” with Karen’s façade completely gone, she says to me urgently.

"What's going on?" I ask her quietly while trying my best to keep my expression as neutral as possible. You don't know who is watching.

She lets out a controlled sigh, taking out her handheld unit from her purse, her eyebrows furrowing.

“I’ll join you before the afternoon session,” is all she offers before she walks into the lady’s room.

.

Some of the far-right protestors shout during one of the afternoon’s speakers’ session. The security of the venue escort them out of the hall. But the air within the conference shifted entirely. During recess, I catch the manager and the event promoter are personally going around to apologize individually, for the unsavory incident that occurred.

Rose, no, Karen leaves soon after turning her press pass in. And I am left on my very awkward moments of pretending that I am not acquainted with Elio at all. He introduces the lady first, like an esteemed member should, in a distinct French accent. She is clinging to his gently bent arm like a vice grip. Even though I'm fulling aware Elio is undercover for an op, I cannot help but to feel the unpleasant emotion churning at the pit of my stomach. Oh, god..., I'm jealous. On top of other messy emotion, I feel cold eerie sweat running down my spine.

We shake hands as I clandestinely repeat to myself over and over that I am meeting him for the first time. And Elio gives me a rather tight squeeze before he lets go of my hand. Did he sense my discomfort? Why did it feel like he was trying to assure me he’s fine?

.

**Same Evening | Bruges, Belgium | Oliver POV**

I hear a knock on my door, \ “Room service.” \

Good, I'm starving. I wasn’t going to just rely on the expansive snack bar in my room. I get up out of the lounger and walk toward the door. When I peer out the peep hole, a hotel uniformed female is standing with a cart.

Odd.

I only ordered a cheese burger. It should only be a tray-ful, not the whole cart. Then, I freeze.

“The New Year here will be spectacular,” says the woman.

That is one of the safe phrases I was given to pay attention to, by Vimi... no, Zuppe. So I unlock the door.

“Good evening, sir,” she lightly bows her head before she says, “May I?”

She pushes her cart in and asks me to call once I am done with my meal so the cart’d be collected by the hotel staff. I say my 'thank you' and she smiles. Then, she exits closing the door behind her.

"I see now what Celan meant," a familiar voice comes from, underneath the cart.

“Jesus!!” I exclaim in unexpected surprise, even though I recognized the voice without any problem.

Rose appears out from the side of the cart, rearranging her hair.

“You are a boy scout. Gold star for you, professor,” says the lady in the hotel uniform.

“Is she…?” I ask Rose, still dumbfounded.

She makes a half-yes and half-no expression with her face, “she’s in house,” offers rather noncommittedly, walking to the window.

“In house? the hotel?”

“No,” Rose chuckles as if I am a five year old asking a grown up an only-child-can-ask question, “in house as in the country of Belgium.”

Her ninja quiet steps carry on around the hotel, peeking out, closing curtains and turning off lights near the windows. Then, she walks back to the cart and flips up the thick cotton cloth. She nonchalantly takes out the black backpacks and steps away.

“Do please enjoy your meal, professor, before it gets cold,” she says with a soft smile.

“Did you have something to ea…?”

Rose huffs out a laugh, “you’re cute,” and says something in French under her breath, “the chef here is really good, you won’t be disappointed,” adds with a tight incline of her chin as if to say, do dig in and enjoy.

.

After the third bite, sitting in front of the small table, I am suddenly hit with the urge to ask about what she said, a little earlier.

"You two talk about me a lot?"

“Pardon?” Rose asks.

“What you said earlier…,” I trail off, feeling like a high school girl trying to pry into a life of a popular guy, through one of his besties.

“Ah–,” Rose just gives me a look, “why~? you don’t like people talking about you without you knowing?

I toss a stray piece of lettuce from the plate into my mouth, just looking at her.

“Or are you trying to gain some insight about Celan?”

I pause. Probably with a blank face. Startled maybe. On how she can so easily tell my hidden true intention. Her gaze straight and locked on mine, unfaltering. In a knowing look, don’t you fucking dare to deny it. Awft, hell.

“Am I not allowed?”

The corner of her lips quirk up. Only just. With a soft fleeting ‘pft,’ before she says, “I can see why Zuppe loves you.”

Then, she walks over to the mini-bar (complaining about the dismal selection) and picks out two mini bottles. She is really quiet when she travels. I couldn’t help but looking down at her shoes. Nope, just regular shoes, from the looks of it. I hear the aluminum cap twist-crackle open.

“Here,” she stretches her arm.

Once I take it, she sits herself down on the opposite lounger and dumps out her chest. Yet, she doesn’t say anything immediately. Rose just brings the tiny glass jar to her lips but pauses for a moment. Her lips part but close without any words. Though I cannot quite tell whether she is purposefully laying down a suspense first or deciding or debating where to begin, or maybe even thinking how to break things to a civilian such as me. She breathes out long and takes a swig out of the little bottle. And she doesn’t even flinch as the hard liquor hits her throat.

"What you see in the news and the media are gleeful failures of intelligence communities. We don't operate like the ones you see in the silver screen."

Gleeful? The stark sarcasm oozing out of her mouth is out of this world.

"Do you remember the blackout in lower Manhattan?" she asks with a calm tone, her lips going back on the rim of the mini bottle.

I quickly think back and, "you mean the one happened in last July?"

Rose nods lightly, twice.

"Were you two…?" I cannot help but to trail off. Involved? Missioned? Which word is the right one? I find myself debating fervently in my head. More importantly, I just cannot imagine what it would mean to say the words to describe what happened in July and/or about them. Her eerily focused unflinching eyes. Why does she appear as if she does not blink?

"It was Celan's idea,” she begins, “We were cornered and there was no way we could exit without causing mass casualty. So we jerry-rigged the EMP to fry the system. We knew that the outage would only last for a few hours.”

A few hours? The Broadway, half of the Bronx, and the financial district suffered no-electricity for nearly all night. Most of all, people stuck in New York subway: in the middle of the summer, during the record high heat wave.

“Come on think about it,” she adds at my look in a tone of ‘it’s not a rocket science.’

Yes, it was after the market has closed for that day, very near the sunset, not affecting the water supply.

"But the news said… ," the rebuke coming out of my mouth as I say it sounds too civilian.

"That's exactly how we intended it."

Well, of course. Isn’t that how things in Elio and Rose’s world work?

“Are you CIA?” I toss an abrupt question. Maybe I really wanted to designate and wanted to know which government intelligence service they are operating from.

Rose chortles under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief, “What is it with you on trying to designate which outfit we belong to like you are solving a puzzle? It hasn’t been 1950s for a very long time.”

“Well, I know you guys are not FBI or MI5,” a pitiful comeback, as if to say, ‘well, I may be a civilian but I know how to think.’ What are you doing Oliver?

Rose chuckles under her breath, dipping her chin, “an astute observation, professor.”

Because if Elio, Rose (whatever her real name is), and Vimini work in multiple jurisdictions and across different countries, I can easily eliminate domestic intelligence service agencies.

“Don’t tell me, you’ve read up on it,” says Rose.

“Or is it a black ops division?”

“Aye––,” she sighs, looking at my hand with a look, ‘I’ll take it if you’re not.’

So, I extend my hand and she goes 'merci' before she take it.

“Are you gonna tell me it’s above your pay grade?”

“You only need to know what you need to know,” answers Rose, swishing the high-proof alcohol in her mouth like a mouthwash before she swallows. Then, she runs her tongue around the upper teeth behind the closed mouth.

I breathe out a measured sigh, “I understand.”

Rose just hums. Then, she blinks quietly, looking up at the ceiling fan.

“He’s uh… he is a class of his own. I’m sure it’s best to hear from the horse’s mouth but… Celan… He is at his most himself in front of the keys. Have you…?” she scoffs at herself, “That was a dumb question, wasn’t it? Of course you have,” she sucks in a breath, “The only time we can talk, about anything,” she continues with her gaze falling a few feet in front of her, “is when he is sitting in front of a piano.”

“Have you and… ,” please say ‘no,’ please say ‘no.’

“Errhghh,” her head snaps up with a full revulsion on her face, “that would–, erhghhh,” with ‘duh fuck, dude!’ expression on her face.

“I admit I have issues with my parents but erhgh, (French curse word) and (French wives’ tale gesture for warding off bad spirit) Just so you know he’s not my body type. Although I can clearly understand why so many flirt with him and sometime literally throw themselves at him. But, errhghh––,” she shudders again, “plus, would you fuck someone who got you out of the shithole and gave you a chance in life? That’s messed up. Erhgrrehh.”

“Okay, point taken,” I chuckle, too, “would you then quit playing 20 questions and tell me your story?”

“Alright, since you asked nicely.”

.

._._._.

**Few Years Back, farther in the past than recent | Somewhere in Holland**

Rose stirred in pain. Her forehead speckled with sweat beads, she frowned deep before waking up with a sudden gasp. Not recognizing where she was, she turned her head to try and discern, just to find someone else. She had seen him before. Well, at a couple of different places actually: once at the café at the corner, once at the tea-n-herb shop at the far edge of the tourist attraction, and once more at the convenient store.

“Where the fuck am I?”

“Glad you are awake. How do you feel?”

Rose groaned hard, “like someone stumped on me to make merlot,” and tried pushing herself up, “and who the fuck are you?”

“Stay still,” Elio said pressing his palms on her clavicle, deft but firm.

Rose looked around, still disoriented, realizing that she was nowhere she remember she should be, “Where am I?”

“Some place safe.”

Rose scoffed and rolled her eyes, “How are you involved?”

Elio’s face made a minute expression and pulled out the thermos, as if he had been waiting to inquire about the object.

Rose groaned, rolling her eyes, and muttered some foul words under her breath.

“You know what this is?” though his tone mild, a hint of suspicion in his voice landed right on Rose’s ears.

“Look, I was just doing a delivery job,” deny everything, _I don’t fucking know you and you can fuck off for all I care_. It was not her first time getting questioned by the likes of him anyways. She could _smell_ them without even batting her eyes. Because how an unassuming guy who apparently pretended to be a tourist be spotted at the exact location where her _businesses_ usually take place? Although… he looked too cute for a copper. Hmm…

“Be straight with me,” Elio stared dead on, “Did you know?”

“Know what?” Rose kept her face as mirthless as she could and shrugged her shoulders.

Elio tempered a heavy sigh and thumbed around the bottom of the cylinder, _after_ giving her a quick upward glance of ‘well, if you insist on playing _that_ game.’ Right in front of Rose’s eyes, Elio’s long fingers twisted and turned the container and it let out soft clicks. Once the last part of the combination was set, the body of the thermos hissed and the top pushed upwards to reveal the secret compartment. Rose knew she was carrying something crazy expansive but she wasn’t aware exactly what. In the clear inner cylinder that rose up from the thermos shell, there were several cut diamonds in layers of compartments.

“No shit.”

Elio hummed meaningfully, “so you didn’t know.”

“I told you. I was delivering that shit.”

Elio sucked in an inaudible breath.

“What are they? Some sort of rare gemstones?”

“Yakutia Canaries.”

“Holy–.”

Yellow Diamonds, also known as 'Canary Yellow Diamonds' or simply 'Canary Diamonds,' are the most common form of Colored Diamonds. Within the range of rare colored diamonds, only 1 carat out of every 10,000 carats mined is a natural fancy color diamond, the yellow diamond has gained tremendous popularity because of its beautiful shine and its relatively affordable prices. In fact, they are considered by most the most popular color diamond. Yet the ones are mined from Yakutia Region of Siberia, Russia (hence the name Yakutia Canaries) have been known to be the rarest natural color diamond in the world.

“Yeah,” replied Elio in a tell-me-about-it tone, “we need to get you outta here.”

“We? Who’s we?”

Elio set his jaw square before he reached into his black bag and pulled out something. Rose cocked her head in curiosity watching Elio’s hands twist-n-turn. Once it became what appeared to be an ‘open’ state, Elio reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a pen. With a click, he was now holding a satellite phone.

“(code name for regional direct contact), go secure. Echo November two six, Celan eight theta. (alphanumeric safehouse designation) compromised, requesting evac.”

After a short reply from the handheld device, Elio gritted his teeth, “God damn it. Get me Zuppe. I don’t care. Get Zuppe on the line!”

There was a few moments of silence from the device Elio was holding.

/ “You just created an international quake.” /

“People break rules all the time, V. We can spin this to our advantage.”

/ “How?” /

“I’ll think of something,” he clicked his tongue, tucking the transformer (?) modular phone between his ear and his shoulder, “Get us outta here.”

The female voice on the other end gave Elio instruction. And Elio twisted the thermos back into its original state.

/ “And Celan?” /

“Yeah?”

/ “Code Dante.” /

Elio dumped out his chest in a sharp yet determined exhale, “I know,” answered glumly, “Celan out.”

/ “See you at home.” /

Elio hummed before he hung up the communicator. Then he pulled out the pen which was acting as an antenna and dropped it on the concrete floor. And Crush. Rose blinked as Elio’s foot made sure (with more thump thump) the device was indeed destroyed. He sucked in a large breath and,

“Can you walk?”

“I think so,” she winced hug her mid-torso with her dominant arm, “what kind of name is _Celan_ anyways?”

“Good, come on,” Elio extended his arm and brought Rose close to his body, “no matter what, you hold on to me.”

Rose nodded, subduing a groan, clutched her abdomen.

Two walked to the large metal sliding door at the end of the place. Elio reached his free hand over the wall instead of opening the door. To Rose’s surprise, his hand exposed some type of panel hidden there just next to the frame of the entrance. His long fingers moved over the number pad and a series of beep continued.

“Ah, by the way, Elio,” he offered quietly once the four digit red number appeared on the small LCD screen. And the timer started counting down, “Elio Perlman.”

Rose looked at him with widened eyes. Elio huffed with a closed lipped smile before he straightened his hold around her, grabbed on the door rail, and slid it open.

.

That evening there was a headline news about a giant fire in an abandoned factory building near the city center. Two bodies were found burnt to unrecognizable crisp, their identities unknown. Officials reported that the remains appeared to belong to two homeless squatters: one male, one female.

._._._.

**Oliver’s Hotel Room**

An amazing story, Oliver thinks to himself. Yet, his head is filled with so many questions; where did Elio get the bodies? how was that enough to simply dismiss the fire that occurred near the city?

But Oliver cannot help but to listen in as Rose carries on telling him of how Elio got into this mess(?) from the first place.

“Zuppe didn’t want Celan to go in. He barely healed up from the last one. But the upstairs wanted the things to be done and over with, before the election and… insisted that it’s a low grade op.,” Rose breathes grimly, “today I was supposed to get the data so he could exit.”

“So,” Oliver begins carefully, grasping the dire nature of Elio’s situation, “what’s going to happen?”

Rose snorts, “I’m gonna get his old-ass out of there, that’s what’s gonna happen. (French curse word). Better you don’t know the detail. Plead the 5th you Americans say, eh?”

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a passionate kiss, two lovers found peace and serenity in the simple act of holding each other close. Exhaustion from the event prior, they fell asleep. Oliver never slept this good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Disclosure ] From the very beginning, I have thoroughly understood what it means to be a part of “non-hetero-erotica” world of fanfiction and by whom the majority of my drabbles be read. But… canon!_Oliver _never_ stepped out of his marriage and therefore, Nothing sexual happened.  
> .  
> loads of _Find Me_ infused in

"Perhaps we only leave  
So we may once again arrive,  
To get a bird's eye view  
Of what it means to be alive.  
For there is beauty in returning..."  
—Erin Hanseon

**Resetting the Clock**

Before Oliver had a chance to process what Rose told him last night, things went down too quickly. He was only about to enter into the biggest conference room hosting a banquet decorated in fine linens and sparkling lights was when it happened.

A flashback of frenzied scenes from the banquet hall plays as a messy rerun. Oliver stirs in his sleep as his eyes rolled beneath his shut eyelids. They are his memory; he is having a bad dream. Ear deafening echoes of gun shots and people clambering-screaming chaotically replay. Oliver’s head turns to one side then to the other, his brows furrowing deep. A choppy recollection of seeing Elio across the room. Oliver believed he saw him get shot. A masked assailant approached him. The emotion and the sensation repeat without any filter. He is breathing fast: both in his dream and in this current sleep state. Then, he jolts up right with a heavy desperate gasp.

Oliver blinks trying to make out where he is. With a subdued groan, he palms his face. From what he can gather, Oliver is in some type of warehouse-ask open flat. When he sucks in a breath, the musty dust smell of unused unadorned concrete fills his nostrils. Oliver runs his palm over his face again. There is no usual furniture or fixtures that could indicate this as a residence. It looks more like a make-shift space for people like Elio and Rose would use to regroup-n-gather. The mattress he woke up on is comfy enough but just in bare minimum. No box spring, just thick mattress with a clean sheet that smells a lot like industrial bleach. And a scent that Oliver is very familiar with; the one that has been packed in a bag for a long while, the one that your relatives keep in the closet for once in a blue moon guest. Something that has been in suspended disuse. Hm, a strange feeling worms inside him, at the ironic yet synchronistic metaphor of the situation. Oliver fills his lungs again. He doesn’t remember how he got here.

“Hello?” Oliver calls out carefully. No answer.

On his left, Oliver spots the muted TV screen with the AP channel on. A picture of _the woman_ was shown with the headline scrolling at the bottom. And he recognizes her instantly, though her picture was in studio quality compare to her un-photoshopped real self. The one that clung to Elio’s arm the other night. Oliver’s chin lifts, his eyes strangely narrowing a tad. The scrolling caption states she died of heart attack due to a shock on scene and her body guard died on the operating table.

The breaking news repeats on the small screen, tossing back and forth about the terrible right wing incident happened at the convention. So, Elio’s cover was her personal bodyguard, Oliver gathers. I thought people preferred MMA fighter type bodyguards. Then, his thought goes to, ‘How many times has he died?’

 _Oh, shit! That means–– my wife_ _!_ _I need to find a way to reach her._

Oliver quickly tries to get up and suddenly hit with searing pain. The blond grimaces hard.

_There must be a phone._

All of a sudden, Oliver’s ears catch a mildly distant labored breath. His head turns to the direction of the origin of the sound.

_Someone’s here._

The same labored breath repeats and Oliver tightens and goes still.

“Rose?”

No answer.

.

From where he mustered up the idea (or courage) to check-things-out, Oliver himself could not understand. Though he has absolutely no clue what is going on, Oliver gathered that it was semi-okay since he is in any restraints, isn’t muzzled, nor drugged (other than pain he was safely sure he wasn’t). And yet one minute he was sitting on the make-shift bed, the next he finds himself treading the cement floor as quietly as he can. As if he is being pulled by an invisible leash, inexplicably wrapped around his heart, tugging, and… tugging at his soul. The dimly lit place is stark. And he is getting closer to where the labored breaths is coming from; which is coming from around the corner. Oliver takes in a determined breath. Okay, take a quick peek then decide what to do. With a careful movement, he slowly glances around the corner wall.

The first thing comes to his view is a silhouette of a man. An exquisite form of a human being Oliver can never forget. Even fifteen years later.

Hanging from the ceiling, on his wrist, Elio is working out. A one-arm pull up. His good arm bandaged up, with naked torso over a pair of black jeans, his bare feet in graceful overlay on one another, Elio lifts his whole body up. Lean as a whippet, he pulls himself up until his head tops the beam he tied a rope around. As if he has a metronome counting a beat, his movement is steady and in complete control.

Mesmerized, Oliver’s feet lead his body closer to him.

“It’s rude to stare,” Elio pauses at the top and states barely more than a whisper. Elegantly suspended in mid-air, Elio twists his wrist in a static motion, to free himself from the rope. The muscles in his arms tremble yet there is no hint of exertion on Elio’s face. He then extends his arm all the way in measured increments before landing quietly on his feet. He grunts a little. Though it was a soft landing, the impact must have shot up to his new wound. With a long and even exhale through his nose, Elio straightens himself.

“Glad you are up and about, professor,” states Elio, turning around, sweat dripping from his curls. He is not even remotely out of breath.

His hair is almost all soaked in his sweat. With ringlets of chocolate accentuated, his body is emitting the scent that is very Elio Oliver could never forget. His cheeks flushed. His trim taut chest and tummy heave rhythmically as the cycles of breaths course through him.

“Would you like something to drink?”

To the nonchalance he offers, Oliver simply stands there. No words, not even knowing what to do or how to react.

.

._._._.

**A Couple of Hours Back**

Oliver did his part two of the presentation and sat down for some Q&A. He didn’t see Rose all morning. She only said he needn’t worry. For some reason, Oliver noticed some commotion happening at the back of the room. Nothing significant: the three guys who were standing at the back exited and didn’t come back. If it weren’t for what had been happening with Rose (or Karen) so far, Oliver probably wouldn’t give a second about that occasion. He sat his jaws and heard the host say, “what about you, Professor?” into the mic.

.

After the ‘pleasantries and some photos’ off the podium, he was asked to meet other guests at the banquet hall down in B1 level.

“I’ll take the stairs,” Oliver waved as others got into the elevator.

Something was odd, Oliver mulled the thought as he carried himself down the steps.

.

He turned left, smoothing his front, towards the single door that leads to the designated conference room. The tempo of the time changed. In slow motion, Oliver turned his head right, towards where the big double door was being shut by someone dress in all black. His head tilted quizzically as he walked in. On his third step in, Oliver heard the machine gun going off. Everyone ducked at the same time, loud screams of shock broke out. Oliver’s body too reacted. In his left peripheral vision, Oliver believed he saw Elio, next to the middle aged woman.

.

Everything happened so fast. It was never like the movies he had seen. His heart pounding in his ears, he was sitting behind one of the tables in the corner. The assailants were yelling in English and French. Oliver’s eyes dart, trying to see if he could get out of the hall. Why he decided to do so, he didn’t understand. But the urge to escape was too overwhelming. Oliver’s brain kept telling him it was most logical. So he got up and one of the goons turned and pointed the gun. Simultaneously, Oliver spotted where Elio and the woman was. Why his eyes took in hyperfocused images of what Elio’s nimble hand motion was doing, Oliver could not comprehend. It was very similar to the time when he and Rose visited his house a few months back. Then,

Pop pop, pop pop pop

His head whooshed. There was a heavy thud. Oliver felt it on the back of body. He gathered he must have landed on his back. It knocked the air out of him. Oh, god, this is how I go, Oliver thought. Because his chest felt heavy as if he was hit by a freight train. That was when he heard a familiar voice close to his left ear.

“If you hear the shot, it’s not meant for you,” said Elio calmly.

Then, another voice.

“Jesus, which part of stay down did you not understand??” Rose cursed under breath, checking Elio.

Oliver could not make out what was going on. Because the person dressed as a terrorist had Rose’s voice.

“Stay focused,” Elio muttered under his breath, telling her ‘he is fine’ as his subdued his grunt with a heavy frown.

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Rose swore, looking at her palm.

She lifted her head and appeared to exchange looks with other attackers in the room. And with a heave, she said something in German and Elio’s body went limp. She quickly yelled something aloud. Like a chant for an extremist group, before bending down a little to grab the hem of Elio’s shirt at the back of his neck.

“Crawl,” Rose mouthed to Oliver her back towards the others and dragged Elio’s body out of the room.

Once the three were on the other side of the door, Rose cursed some more. Elio waved his hand, pressing his palm over his upper arm, “it’s through and through.”

Rose spat more swear words in French, taking out the tourniquet from one of her pockets.

"I'm still here," Elio tossed a look in a way ‘I was shot, not at my ears and I can still hear you,’ wincing at the way she was applying tourniquet on him.

"Well, Celan, it’s been driving me up the wall. Did you grow fond of that hag or something?"

"It's nice to see you too," Elio offered her a grin.

Rose rolled her eyes under the mask, "Zuppe confirmed the intel. Great job."

Elio explained that he had to stay so he could get as much information as possible.

"I had to make sure I got the thickest stalk before pulling the whole thing up from the ground."

"Stop with the potato plant analogy. Even that doesn't eliminate every critters."

"Critters she says, but I got this cell. Down to the minnows," Elio pushed himself up into a seated position against the wall.

"Am I allowed to be part of this conversation?" Oliver finally said.

"I don't know. Are you?" She shot a look gathering the wrap and a hyperdermic needle (rather surreptitious motion) Elio just handed over. Oliver debated whether to press about the needle he saw was what he was thinking but it wasn’t the right time.

"Rose," Elio warned sternly.

"My apologies,” Rose dipped her head a little to Oliver and swiftly turned her head back to Elio and carried on saying something curtly in French. And Oliver could only make out Elio replying something in lines of, ‘I’ll take care of it.’ Take care of what? Oliver wondered as Rose added something more that sounded a lot like curse words of other languages and went, “Alright, old man, see you when I see you," and she went back inside the hall.

._._._.

**Warehouse (safehouse)**

Oliver catches the juice bottle with ease.

"What is it?"

"Apricot juice. It's not Mafalda's but it's closest thing I could get."

His face expression softens but he doesn’t open it. Elio’s long slender throat waves and waves as he gulps down the liquid.

“The MP (military police) will escort you to the embassy,” Elio explains, wiping his mouth with the back of his forearm, “They’ll take your statement and debrief you. Remember the phrase 'the plausible deniability.' Then, they’ll probably fly you out either via a diplomatic private jet or military carrier.”

“What’s gonna happen to you? You’re shot and... shouldn’t you be in–?”

"Relax, it was a clean shot," Elio waves his hand lightly putting a shirt over himself and tells him it was Rose who shot him and that she is a sharpshooter, missing major arteries and bone, “a flash wound,” he adds and “it’s nothing. It had to look convincing. I’m sorry I had to get you involved in this. I owe you.”

Oliver groans, rubbing his hands over his face, “you don’t owe me anything. I’m sure Vimi… Zuppe had to do what she had to do to get you out.”

Elio just hums. Checking his guns, with his uninjured hand. He flinches when he is trying to get the shoulder harness on by himself. Though Oliver doesn’t know anything about the gun, he walks to him and instinctively goes, “here,” quietly under his breath. Elio pauses a tempo but explains how it should go around his body. Once the broken-in strap is on his upper body, Oliver sees him flip the safety on before holstering the gun. With a little grimace, Elio rolls his shoulder.

That is the moment Elio’s sweat, though tinged with blood and excitement, hits Oliver hard, again. His throat waves at the undeniable sensation in his gut, trying not to do anything stupid.

.

“No, no, no, no,” Elio ducks himself and wiggles out from Oliver’s extended palm that was just about to touch his good arm.

Oliver blinks as if he just had an out-of-body experience. It’s as if his subconscious was the one that did the action and Oliver realizing what his hand was about to do, he lets out a sharp sigh.

“Our relationship has always been on your terms, Oliver. ... You left…, remember?”

What? what did I do? what did I say? Oliver tries to figure out what just happened.

.

**A Slight Rewind**

Elio thinks he shouldn’t have let Oliver help him with his holster straps. He thought that he would be okay, having him back in his intimate space like that. But once his large palm caressed the back of Elio’s head, he felt himself melting into his touch. All sweaty like that summer. Yet the way Oliver’s fingers found their way on his scalp was…

“No, no, no, no,” Elio sighs heavily leaving Oliver’s hand suspended in mid-air.

Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future, people say. Yet we so frequently martyr ourselves to the pain of the past, or even attempt to carry the suffering of others, holding it within our hearts as if that can alleviate the burden of another. Or even worse, believing in that it can somehow create healing. For a longest time Elio just couldn’t understand how it could be so different for Oliver than that it was for him. How was it that Oliver was able to move on and lead a life that should have been theirs, between Elio’s and Oliver’s, all these years?

Then, his thought drifts to Via Santa Maria Dell’Anima where a very old lamp was built into a wall. A place marks a moment where for a short while Elio held life in his hands and was never the same afterward. Even fifteen years later, he can still vividly recall that moment. Drunk out of his mind, a taste of vomit still lingering in his mouth, completely dazed, Oliver holding him, his back against the wall looking up at those gorgeous blue eyes. The moment Elio felt he had the world at the palm of his hands. A memory watermarked on that very wall overshadows everyone he has known. And that has been all he had to remember, of Oliver, by Oliver. So far that has been enough for him. It is an ironic sorrowful yet eternally joyful slice of heaven he held close to his soul.

Oliver’s hand cups Elio’s face, stopping Elio from pulling away. Elio’s eyes flutter-close. Oliver’s head tilts with a somber frown on his face. Shaky breath leaves Elio’s body. And… Oliver leans into presses his lips over Elio’s. Slow lips and lips. And Elio’s head tilts upward at his motion. Oliver feels delicate tremble rippling from Elio’s lips. To Oliver’s surprise, Elio parted his lips slowly and envelopes Oliver’s softly. That is when Oliver ropes his arms around Elio and kisses him with all the want and the need. Yet just as immediately, Elio pulls his chin down and breaks the kiss, leaving Oliver gasp in desperation.

“Our relationship has always been on your terms, Oliver. I was seventeen and I never expected to fall head-over-heels in love with someone who was going to stay only six weeks. You left…, remember?”

Oliver breathes but he is not letting this moment go, he can't. Of all things that could have happened, of all ways that could have brought them together, this (Oliver strongly feels) will never repeat. So, he goes,

“All these years, even during that six weeks, you never asked me to say what you really wanted me to say,” Oliver cups Elio’s face screwing his eyes shut, “not even once.”

Elio’s palm comes and presses against Oliver’s chest.

“No, no, no,” Oliver leans forward and presses his lips against Elio’s cheek. This time, Elio screws his eyes shut, though leaning into Oliver’s lips on his cheek, “Feel this. Tell me you feel this.”

Elio can only gasps as he swallows hard.

Oliver glides his lips along the lower jaw line, “Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“…It’s been 15 years.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver kisses the flesh right under Elio’s ear lobe, “I was a coward.”

Elio offers him a smile: a doleful yet self-deprecating one. And he quickly diverts his eyes, Oliver’s heart wrenches.

With a soft inaudible breath, “And you thought it’d be a ripe time for you to dust off old flames?” his voice mild but Oliver can tell it carried more meaning, something deeper. Elio continues after a long sigh, “You have a family. Your wife. Your two boys.”

Oliver sighs in pain, “my boys,” a pregnant pause hangs heavily between them, “…Is that why you never settled with anyone? Is that why you chose this life?”

The next exhale of his too is cavernous and stretched, “I’ve told you before, professor. I’ve made my choice. Regardless of how I reached it, it is mine and mine alone.”

“Oliver…,” Oliver breathes his name in plea.

Elio shakes his head and his curls sway only just and pulls himself away, knitting his eyebrows. Yet, Oliver doesn’t let him. He steps in close and hugs Elio into his arms and buries his face between the crook of his neck and shoulder. Elio pauses as Oliver tightens his arms around Elio’s waist and whispers his confession,

“I have only had one old flame, Elio, you know that.”

_What are you saying?_

Elio shudders, sighing out through his nose. Eyelids flutter as he sets his jaw. He is trying, trying not to crumble but this is beyond his mighty will. So Elio leans his cheek against Oliver’ temple: still reluctant, ever so slow, as if it’s something he shouldn’t do. Because despite his cutting and rational words, every cell in Elio’s body felt Oliver’s confession. Elio’s hand on his side flinches, his fingers extending a little as if they want to reach up and hold Oliver in, embrace him. Yet, it turns into a tight fist and his knuckle turns white before both his hands move around the back of his waist to free Oliver’s arms. When Elio slides his thumb between Oliver’s hands, the hold around his waist only tightens. Elio squares his jaws; he's trembling. That’s when Oliver shakes his head.

“I got married quickly because I was afraid of losing someone else. Yeah, sure, Micole and I were on and off before that summer. Because of that decision, back 15 years ago, I’ve had to live without you; that’s how I know I can’t.”

It’s the hardest when someone has a notion about you and it’s impossible to convince them otherwise.

“… you can’t what?” Elio asks low.

“That… I cannot live without you. That I’ve lost my soul and I cannot be _me_ , without _you_ , Elio.”

Elio huffs dropping my head, desperately wanting to lean his head against Oliver’s chest but he takes a step back. Oliver raises his hand and gently tilts his head forward as if to bury his nose into the unruly curls that was falling forward.

“Let me guess, you were hoping that we could carry on where we left off and that you’d get a second chance. And that we’d both be in a place in life where we could fall in love again.”

Elio looks up slowly and sees Oliver. The rims of his eyes red, his lips lightly trembling.

The dark curls sighs out a sharp huff with a brief smile. Yes, he is about to say something Oliver doesn’t want to hear. So instead, Oliver interjects,

“Oliver–,” a breathy plea, with his eyes quivering.

Elio shakes his head and takes another step back.

.

**Next Morning**

Standing at the edge of the warehouse, Elio stares blankly out at the alleyway outside the barred window. The surface of the glass hasn’t been cleaned in a while, reflecting his own image. It’s the darkest before the sunrise. No hint of a living soul outside, only the carelessly discarded industrial wastes and remnants of the yesterdays of busy manufacturing block. He blinks as the gradient of the sky begins to change. It’s slow and innocuous yet it feels as though he is repeating the past he had once lived.

Taking in a steadying breath, he turns his head over his left shoulder, his gaze tracing a line to the empty half of the only bed in this place. A make-shift bed in this safe house. Oliver lies under the covers, open and vulnerable, sound asleep. In a way Elio remembers him all those years ago. How uncanny that is to him. Elio envies his peaceful rest, wishing this slice of heaven would last. And the last night’s conversation replays like a projection in front of him. A spectral image of him and Oliver in the past that was just a few hours ago. The conversation that seemed as old as the time two were apart.

._._._.

On the sixteenth of November each year—Elio’s birthday— though married and the father of two sons, Oliver confessed that he would take time out to remember the Poseidonian in himself and to consider what life would have been had they stayed together.

“I feared I was starting to forget your face, your voice, your smell, even,” Oliver said quietly, “over the years I had found my own ritual spot not far from my office, overlooking a lake where I would take a few moments on that day to think of our unlived life, mine with yours.”

 _The vigil_ , Elio thought.

Oliver went on, “and I realized that I was a Poseidonian on all but one day a year and that the lure of bygone days had never left me, that I had forgotten nothing and didn’t want to forget, and that even if I couldn’t write or call to see whether you too had forgotten nothing, still I knew that though neither of us sought out the other, it was only because we had never really parted.”

Elio blinked, his face still. Then, a thought dawned on him. His father was right. Two were just alike. Even miles-and-miles apart and years of time gap in between them, Oliver and Elio were (have been) thinking the same. A perpetually shared mind and soul. Fifteen years… they both led separate timelines since then. For Elio that was how things truly were; lives and breathes in more ways than one.

Because… he has never fallen out of love with him. It was something Elio just simply couldn’t sober up from. And the fact that the ending was given to him when he didn’t want to let end clung on to the very fabric of his soul. Of which for a longest time, he felt he was stubbornly hanging on to something that was already gone; something that was supposed to end. Because he has been fantasizing that their attraction and their spark would always be there. Because it has been, for him.

And years went by and Elio had met many women and more men in his life but none compared. Funny thing life was, as it was never about getting what he wanted. Instead he realized that true love in its absolute and purest form has many purposes in life. That it was not just about romance or being soul mates for one another or even lifelong companionships. The love Elio had with Oliver in the past, unfinished, untested, and yeah… lost, by not getting what he wanted, ultimately has become the most concentrated wholesome thing he could ever be bestowed with. Because of it, he has wandered, endured, and survived: the life without Oliver. And…knowing fully that Oliver’s path may never cross again with his, Elio had learned to live with just the idea of him. Just knowing he existed got Elio through a lot in life. And that ultimately led him to figure out that neither never actually left one another. Just to realize and understand that Elio was he and he was Oliver. All was simply different versions. It took him a while to see it.

How curious, Elio mulled the thought. After a silence, his lips parted softly. And with a shaky breath, he went, “…If you mean it—”

“Yes, I do. I _do_ mean it,” Oliver replied without missing a beat.

“Then, do right by your family. Your wife. Your two sons. Regardless of what is going on with the life you have led, they have just as much right. Do right by them,” Elio paused.

_Find yourself._

With a soft breath, he said, “…I cannot tell you how… That’s for you to figure out,” as Oliver’s unwavering gaze held his own reflection.

_When you do, you will realize that we have always been together._

It was something Elio longed to see again. Now that was here, he could brave again. So he said what he always wanted to say, “But know that I’ll always be waiting, until my last breath. And… when the time comes for us, find me.”

_When you finally do, you will see that I was always beside you. Always._

Oliver’s eyes quivered, moisture gathering around the rims of his eyes, “What did I do to ever deserve you?”

Elio offered him a smile, and his ringlets softly swayed, “You didn’t. I just fell in love with you with all that I was, with all that I didn’t know I was, all those years ago. And I never have with anyone else.”

“Oliver… Oliver… Oliver…”

“…Elio…”

._._._.

They didn’t make love last night, but falling asleep in each other’s arms and hearing each other breathe that close again lulled them into sleep. And to Elio, recognizing the scent of Oliver’s breath after so many years and knowing that he was finally in bed with his Oliver without either of them moving away as they released their hold, was exactly what made him realize that they were not a day older than the two young men they’d been so long ago. But he knows how things should play out. And it’s not going to be the one he had imagined; god forbid, hoped. His chin lifts as he fills his lungs and Elio cannot help himself from letting out a resentful tsk under his breath. That’s the moment he hears the rustle.

Oliver blinks slowly up at the ceiling, feeling somnolent yet incredibly well-rested, before he realizes that he wasn’t on his bed or the hotel room. Then, he recalls the last night’s conversation, the kiss, and how it felt to hold Elio in his arms again. Cataloging his extremities (rubbing his fingers gradually in a grip and flexing-n-extending his toes), Oliver becomes aware of the coolness on what supposed to be Elio’s side. His palms over it slowly before he lifts his gaze. And he is greeted with the most stunning thing he’d ever beholden in his life. Standing in front of a window as the world starts to wake up in soft grey blue hue christening him all over. Bed head and all. His chocolate curls as illuminated in a way he had never seen. He pushes himself up on his elbow is when the magnificent form of Elio turns around. Oliver studies his face for a few seconds and a smile he so wanted to offer only comes as a faded one.

“…hey…,” Elio greets him quietly.

The tips of Oliver’s closed lips rise, only just, before he offers, “good morning.”

Elio shoves his hands in the pants’ pocket slow, with a little tip of his shoulders.

Ahh…, Oliver understands. It’s the same look he had at the Monet’s berm the morning after the midnight. The blond pushes up further and extends his open palm. Thankfully, Elio comes to him.

When he is near, instead of taking Oliver’s hand, Elio simply sits down next to him: at the edge of the bed. Hmm, Oliver subdues his expressions.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” the blond tells him.

Elio lets out a small huff under his breath with a tight smile and allows Oliver hand to gently stroke the nape of his neck.

“I know,” Elio breathes the words with slow to come nods.

Oliver’s long fingers card through the curls at the back of Elio’s head there, gentle and dotting. Elio shuts his eyes as he wades into the sensation. His head rolls slowly, his lips parting just so, letting out a feverish sigh. Oliver leans close and lays a kiss on the ledge of Elio’s shoulder. The hazel eyes’ head turns and gravitating towards the blond’s mindful gesture. Oliver’s fingers on the back of Elio’s head extends, cupping the gorgeous curvature that feels like it was made to fit his palm. Their noses brush first.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Oliver says to him again. This time with more conviction and certainty.

Elio nods in stutter: once first, then three times. And he tilts his head (finally) to let their lips meet. Oliver dumps out his chest in a low moan as he tastes Elio’s lips.

“… I know,” Elio says into Oliver’s mouth like a prayer, “I know.”

.

.

.

.

**Oliver POV**

Oliver is at the back seat of a vehicle. A series of innocuous city scape view passes by on the reflection.

With the help of Vimini, we have been in communication ever since. Very double O seven style. Rose popped in and out in disguise. The devices developed like a science fiction and I was able to own a first ever smart phone with a rectangular 4 inch full screen. I came out to my wife first and said that I would like us to stay married until two boys are of age. She agreed. The fact that she was heartbroken for me, I realized I married a wonderful friend. I wish I knew this sooner. I wish I braved it earlier. A few weeks after separating households, Micole decided to finally take up the post-graduate study she postponed after having our two boys. For others, the change in our logistics was logical. Then, I came out to my close colleague and eventually to the school. And it turned out I’d be granted an amicable departure.

Almost five years has gone by since that winter, Vimini passed on the message that Elio would be retiring from the field. So I packed up my bag, my heart fluttering like I was some teenager, and booked the first flight out to Italy. The framed post card and all.

It's dark outside. A vehicle turns the corner as it slows down and the familar sound of gravel rolling under the car brings a smile on his face. In the headlight beam, Oliver sees a familiar figure walking out casually wearing a similar texture of attire that Prof. Samuel used to wear. He runs his fingers through his wayward curls as he comes to stand at the left corner of the villa's entrance. Oliver lets out a happy sigh through his nose.

Finally,

I am _home_.

| | | FIN | | |

\--------------------------------------------------------------

**A Few Weeks after the Belgium Convention**

Rose is laying on the bed only covered in rumpled sheet over her hip, Vimini in her arms being a little spoon. When she stirs, Rose leans forward without opening her eyes and lays a lingering kiss on Vimini's shoulder. She smiles with a happy huff, inaudible but her face expression says everything.

The scene changes and two are at the breakfast bar of their kitchen. It's a sunny day but everything else is quite and so serene. Vimini pours a cup of fresh coffee into Rose's mug that has quotes of insults around the world. She probably got it as a joke for her birthday.

"So, are you gonna tell me why you wanted Oliver involved?" Rose asks her tone mild and inquisitive, getting her overnight oats mixed in her weird sort of way Vimini now finds it so adorable, each and every time.

Because they both know that Rose didn't need an outside help to get Elio out. Granted she might have had to pry him out of the situation but, the ending would have been the same.

"Well," Vimini breathes out, sitting diagonally from Rose, knees touching as they always prefer, "Elio made a point to visit Oliver's house when there was no need _after_ visiting Oliver in one of his lectures."

Rose gestures 'we both knew that' with a shrug.

"I figured it was a time for me to give him a little nudge," she explains putting a spoonful of her fruit and yogurt mix into her mouth.

Rose regards her, with her long handle spoon still mixing the oats and nuts and such.

.

It was true though Elio never explicitly shared it with anyone but he had reached to a point whether he lived or died did not matter to him any more. His father had passed, his mother had built a different life ever since their divorce almost as long as the absence of Oliver, Miranda and little Ollie were now living in the villa in B... . Call it an early mid-life crisis, Elio felt that there was no place left for him to belong. So, like a moth to a flame, he latched himself to this mission that he, Vimini, and the op-central knew of its peril. Yet, once he saw Oliver standing across from the room in that hotel, Elio knew. Everything flooded back into life and he remembered that he _remembered_.

.

A low hum resonates from Rose as her hand comes to a stop. Then, she turns her seat towards Vimini. Vimini's brows lift with a genuine curiosity, her expression soft and warm.

"You are going to let me know or at least give a hint if you are ever going to do that stuff on me, right?"

Vimini smiles and tips her shoulders in 'I don't know, who knows?'

Rose's lips wave in a quirky smile, all knowing, all understanding. She leans in for a kiss.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ sidenote ] My humble tribute to one of my absolute fav fanfics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13335999/chapters/30528735). Though the author probably doesn’t know, I’ve lived and breathed every word of this wonderful fic for a very long while.  
> .  
> This started as a gift to one of the readers and (things happened, I purged and came back) I cannot explain why it took so long to post the rest. I kept tweaking and re-tweaking... but, here is the final version. I doodled a bit of the scenes but I'm not very happy with how they turned out: hence, the reason why they are not included. *nervous smile*  
> .  
> As Always, \Thank You/ for reading your time and interest.  
> .  
> I know it's not much but... I will hold your hopes, your dreams, your heart, and your soul, if you'd let me. For each and every one of us to know and realize that human decency and the truest form of care for one another do exist in this world shrouded in fear, hate, doubt, and uncertainty. A power resides in a simple act of kindness and a genuine smile that we all are here on our own volition that it wasn't a mistake. Please kindly remember to self-love and self-care.


	4. Extra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a copy of letter that didn't reach Elio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, my topaz blue: may this year be the best and the happiest one ever of your life.

**Author's Note:**

>  **[Special Thanks to]** : (alphabetical order as the King Arthur’s roundtable style may be a tad too dramatic LOL. This has always been my tradition, and I update this list on each fic, periodically.)  
> cowboybaebe,  
> ElioOliver4Ever,  
> ilovelife19,  
> Kittenpurple,  
> lycanus1,  
> MedriKylara,  
> MickeyC44,  
> piccola_nuvola_nera,  
> +  
> those who subscribed, bookmarked, and all anon who sent kudos--!  
> .  
> 


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